This is not worth it.

Despite the preachy, soul-searching tone of my 'about me,' I can't for the life of me figure out why I'm writing this blog. Weren't the events surrounding my previous one enough to teach me a lesson?

Waking up in a cold sweat at night, panicking over whether or not doing something I love is going to ruin me (okay, I'm still dramatic) again is really not working out for me.

I went to J-School, for christ's sake. If I can't stand behind my writing and sign my name to it, then I shouldn't bother.

Paris, je t'aime. Lauren, je pense je t'aime ...

I love this girl. I loved the first three-and-a-half seasons of The Hills. I was NEVER on Team Kristin during the Laguna Beach days, though she was admittedly kind of hilarious. LC is my HERO, the girl I want to be when I get younger.

Well, kind of.

One of my Facebook activities is "copying Lauren Conrad's wardrobe" and I've, of late, toyed with the idea of changing it to "copying Blair Waldorf's wardrobe" (we can talk about my ridiculously juvenile Facebook page some other time; whatever, I'm still absent from MySpace and deleting my Facebook when I hit 30 anyway ... I'm clinging to my disillusionment of youth for a while longer) but haven't been able to out of, well, loyalty or apathy, I'm not sure which.

Lauren has been my No. 1 Girl Crush for years. Once in 2004 when I was working in a bar in NYC, some dude told me I looked like her and it (sadly, pathetically, you decide) remains one of the greatest compliments of my life. I think Lauren is adorable, and smart, and the most non-irritating privileged new-money youth I've ever, um, seen on a reality TV show. Plus, she has this fantastic penchant for running around in pretty little cocktail dresses and stilettos and pearls and ponytails and minimal makeup, and, guh. Twins. Everyone loves to love herself, right?

So I've been feeling guilty lately, when the sneaking suspicion that Leighton Meester has taken over the role of No. 1 Girl Crush permeates my brain on Monday nights.

So I've been feeling extra guilty all day after failing to watch the premiere of the second half of season 3 of The Hills last night. Or today online, as was my justification to myself last night when I decided I'd rather go to bed.

So I've been feeling super guilty because I think this all stems from how amazingly underwhelmed I have been by Lauren's fashion line. I think The Fug Girls wrote about it best at some point and voiced the sentiments of us all when they said something along the lines of expecting to see a million pretty little LC cocktail dresses and instead finding a bunch of overpriced tents. And I'll give Lauren credit and say she seems to be getting better with time, but, still. I ... wouldn't buy any of it on clearance. Okay, maybe the Maura Top or the Emily Skirt. On clearance. Because really, she's charging J. Crew-of-late prices and making Old Navy clothes. All under the guise of being a Hollywood designer. Hm.

I mean, this is my No. 1 Girl Crush. I'm not going to break up with her just because I don't actually want to buy her clothes, am I? I mean, I know I've spent 5 years of my life coveting everything she's ever worn, so it was kind of jarring to see what lackluster product her creative side produced. But it could be me! Maybe I've outgrown her? Maybe she's gone too Hollywood, too trendy? Maybe I'm getting lame and traditional in my old age? Maybe I'm the tasteless one and my ridiculous red tights really are just ridiculous and I should invest in ...leggings and cotton beach cover-ups masquerading as dresses by Lauren Conrad?

I should really go watch The Hills.

Christ has risen! CHOCOLATE BUNNY!!!

I love Easter. Really, I do. I mean, you want to call Christmas commercial? People don't even fake it at Easter and slink into church like all us "raised-but-now-non-practicing" Catholics do for Midnight Mass. Honestly, where would an Easter Sunday service really fit into the morning o' champagne and chocolate that is Easter brunch? Let's face it. We all hail the magnificent marshmallow peep on Easter, and I damn well like it that way.

This year I liked it damn well in a purple satin headband with a bow on it and a white eyelet dress over black lace tights. Three peeps to the first to figure out who I was so proudly channeling. My mother was at once horrified and pleased, and then proceeded to trump both with piss-ass-awesome-drunk. Until the part where she talked about how I have yet to give her any grandchildren, or even a lovely white wedding on the sandy-and-salty strip of land where I spent my formative years, and then I had to wander away to slink down behind my three Easter baskets (I am. 26. Years. Old.) and pound pomegranate mimosas with my 16-year-old cousin while she regaled me with tales of her trustafarian classmates at boarding school.

Eventually my mother found me, and continued to shove baby after baby into my arms, stealing them from any young mother within arms length, while simultaneously removing the Cadbury mini eggs from my eyepath and pointing out to me that my dress would look better if I were, you know, anorexic. Can we talk for a moment about the absurdity of her demanding a grandchild and exercising fat phobia at the same time? Mom, not sure I can help you. I can basically guarantee if I get pregnant, I will also get fat.

As things were beginning to get blurry around the edges, I heard her move on to my lack of a career path and how the clock is ticking on the race to find a suitable husband who can 'keep' me and fled the scene entirely with another cousin, this one married six months and already apathetic about the whole thing, fresh of a plane from Austin and high on a bottle of wine. She stole a chocolate cake and led me outside, and, after I adamantly refused to eat any of said cake, proceeded the place the gorgeous thing under the back wheel of an old-model Jeep Cherokee (love those things) and talk its owner into backing over it.

The splat was ungodly satisfying.

Easter is so great.

Can we stop all the world now, already?!

Thanks to elementary school science classes or a cologne commercial, I'm not sure which, we all know that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. But sometimes it still blows my mind.

At my new day job there is an area with a scent that evokes such intense memories of my college dorm freshman year that I literally stop every time I pass by and feel I might double over at the shocking deja vu. Not that it evokes bad memories - on the contrary, it brings me back to a wonderful time so intensely I almost can't stand it.

Following such an episode this afternoon, I stumbled back to my desk and pulled up my ancient blog. Not the one I was fired for, but the one prior to that - a blog full of senior year of college, immediate post-college life in New York, happiness and excitement, my quarter-life crisis and some sadness, and enough pictures and intimacy that I eventually had to abandon it to go anon. Alas, here I am.

Side note: When I interviewed for my current day job, I told them straight up the conditions surrounding the termination of my previous position. The higher ups were greatly amused, and told me I was welcome to blog away on my lunch hour. Obviously, I have no intention of doing so, but figure reading my ancient blog at my work computer can't be dangerous, seeing as I mostly talked about shoes and finals and cupcakes. Of course, this is my life, so, I'll probably be fired again in no time.

Anyway, I pulled up the ancient blog and clicked through my archives to find today in 2004, which was my senior year of college and also the year my blogging tenure began. A good dig through all the crap I've abandoned at my parents' house would likely lead me to the physical journals I was still keeping in my earlier college years, but I'm not sure I want to go there, and so, was sure a trip down memory lane of senior year would do the trick.

To my surprise, I found no entry for March 20, 2004. In fact, there were no entries the entire week. It didn't take me long to figure it out: Spring Break!

My senior spring break was the best of the four, which is impressive considering I spent it in Daytona as opposed to Cancun, Cabo and Ireland, where that blissful week in years freshman through junior took place, respectively. But Daytona goes down without question as the best, and it could be because I was older, it could be because I was with only The BFF and one other friend as opposed to biiiiig groups (I like group activities as much as anyone, but, not so much when there is traveling involved), or it could be because senior year was the year I most needed the break and the debauchery, what with a schedule that included two internships, a job, and two honors seminars, on top of a crumbling relationship with my boyfriend. But whatever the reason, the memory of that week is one of my favorites.

AND I CAN'T FREAKING BELIEVE IT WAS FOUR YEARS AGO!!!

I mean, I can't lie and say it feels like yesterday. But it doesn't feel LIKE FOUR YEARS AGO! And freshman year? As I ran in a panic back to the dorm-scented area of my new office and breathed deeply, I decided, DEFINITELY DOES NOT FEEL LIKE DAMN NEAR EIGHT YEARS AGO!

Eight years? My freshman dorm, and The BFF, and debauchery with members of the men's swim team, and snow storms, and scandals at the shady Chinese buffet, and our tiny fridge filled with nothing but PBR and grapes, and Dawson's Creek watching, and skipping 8 a.m.'s, and drawing a flower on the whiteboard to signify certain activity ... eight years ago? No. No no no.

The panic continued as I recalled meeting The BFF, down to first conversation, down to the bright blue running shorts she was wearing when I walked into the room and the pastel stuffed bug she had decorating her desk shelf, and then thought about where her life is now: her well-paying job she's been at for almost three years that sends her to the occasional exotic locale, her dashing British boyfriend (with whom she's been to the occasional exotic locale), her studio apartment (no four roommates for her) in Manhattan, her chic boot collection, her undying dedication to running.

Maybe it's just me, I wondered. Maybe it's just me who can't believe it's been so long. Maybe it's just me who can't let go. Maybe it's just me, without a career path in sight, without a man, without trips to exotic locales, with boots desperately in need of re-heeling but no expendable income for the task, with no dedication to ... anything.

Maybe I wouldn't be panicking at a hint of deja vu in a girly, floral-shampoo-smelling corner of my office if I'd made my current life anything nearly as great as what the me of eight years ago would dream up for it.

"Okay, this is going to sound stupid, but there's this spot in my office that smells just like (our freshman dorm) and every time I walk through it I kind of feel like I got kicked in the stomach and then my head kind of explodes, and, I mean, eight years! It's been almost eight years! IT IS OUR FOUR-YEAR COLLEGE GRADUATION ANNIVERSARY THIS YEAR! I remember your shorts. Your running shorts, the day we met. And you had a ponytail. I remember it all, and I'm not sure that's okay!"

I heard The BFF laugh on her end of the line. "I remember you had a French manicure, and pearls, and one of those stupid rope bracelets you still wear in the summer. And your mother freaked out about you having the top bunk, but, dude, you got there last. And when your parents left you pulled out a million photos of all your friends and a giant bottle of gin and said you were joining the sailing team and then you took your closet and half of mine and I thought you were the biggest WASP I'd ever met and that we'd never get along. And the next weekend we almost burnt down the dorm cooking crescent rolls because we switched the toaster oven in the lounge to broil instead of bake, and we drank your parents' gin and laughed so hard we cried and then I was pretty sure we were going to be best friends.

I remember it all too. I'm not sure it would be okay if we DIDN'T."

I calmed down. "I'm glad you're still the level-headed one. And that you still run more than anyone I've ever met."

"I'm glad you're still the most hilarious drama queen in the world," The BFF replied. "And that you still wear rope bracelets."

I'm glad I'm not the only one who still holds on sometimes. And that that might be okay.

Um. (not)Awesome.

Last night while shopping for things I do not need with money I do not have, I mentally began picking out outfits for next week, as tomorrow is the first day of spring, so white is fair game, etc. When I got home I cheerfully transferred everything from This Year's Winter Bag (giant. black. amazing.) into my peppy and preppy kelly-and-canvas striped tote (This Year's Spring Bag #1 - spring usually gets two) and shoved TYWB into the under-my-bed storage unit where all my purses of past live.

And today?

Oh, you know. It's snowing.

Great.

Love is ...

... picking your roommate up from Logan Airport smack in the middle of Blair Waldorf's 17th birthday. Why is the freaking CW site not streaming the episode yet?!

I cannot believe how much a teen television show has taken over my life.

On the up side, we've almost reached the episodes I've already seen.

On the up up side, it's almost time for NEW ones!

On the up up up (but still rather meh) side, I've been gainfully employed at a day job for two days!

On the down side, I'm still flat broke. Any suggestions on how to make a quick $100 this week? Don't say sell my body. I'm having a fat week, plus, I'm more expensive than that ;)

Boredom + insecurity = less than stellar weekend

I get bored very easily. Often I worry that this will ruin my entire life, as it tends to keep me moving every year or two, changing jobs pretty much seasonally, and forgetting to commit in relationships with members of the opposite sex until the interested man has done gone off and married someone else.

By 'ruin my entire life' I pretty much mean 'keep me from settling down in any capacity until one day I wake up 40, alone and broke and destined to be so UNTIL I DIE.'

But I can't help it. I'm restless and fidgety and want to live everywhere and meet everyone and think it's sad when people start stories with, "I was at my last job for 12 years."

So maybe I run. I don't know. I try not to look at it that way, but understand how some might. I've always been able to take pride, however, in the fact that, despite all my running, I refuse to become bored with people. To me, people are important, and though that sentiment paired with my reserved-ish ice-queen tendencies may make me a bit of a walking oxymoron, I truly believe that people are nothing without other people, and that if I saw something in a person that piqued my interest in the first place, there is something in there worth finding, and appreciating - forever. Letting people in might not be the easiest thing in the world for me (is it for anyone, really?) but when I do, you're in. For good. At least, I think.

This could be reactionary. I was blessed/cursed with an outgoing personality, a quality of some sort that at times draws other people to me, excites people. Of course, when it comes down to it, though, I'm just a person. Flawed, moody, childish and stupid at times. Most people accept this about people, because most people, I think, understand one another as much as possible, considering humans are by nature so damned difficult to comprehend. It seems, though, that I have a tendency to burn out in peoples' eyes. Burn out. Hm. Sounds like I'm an aging rockstar. Not what I mean. Sometimes it just feels like people get bored with me. Like there's so much flash and initial excitement and they're all, 'Summer! Love! You! Are! My! Favorite! Ever!' and then one day I'm tired and don't want to dance, or I don't have a joke, or I vocalize a dissenting opinion as opposed to just smiling and laughing and agreeing and selecting the evening's destination, and then, BAM. I suddenly realize I was intriguing to these people for a fraction of my personality, not for who I am.

So I sort of always vow not to do that to people. People are important. People are fragile. People can be hurt even when they try to pretend they're stronger than people should be, and, yes, people are kind of nothing without other people. So I don't drop people. I don't tire of people.

And then last night, my roommates and I had a party. Typical. Fun. But I wasn't feeling it. What I was feeling was that familiar restlessness, that sense that it might be time for something new, somewhere else, someone new. And I started to look around and feel ... tired. And over it. Over ... everyone?

In a room full of good people, intelligent, funny, attractive, kind people who have been nothing if not my whole life for the past six months, I began dissecting pretense I thought I was seeing, and weighing friends against other friends and wondering what it is I really like about anyone, and if it's worth it to me or to them for me to even be here.

I hope it's stress. Fatigue. Mono. PMS a week or three early. Because I don't like this feeling. This feeling that I could be, for a moment, all I loathe. This feeling that for all the dissecting I did, someone across the room could have been doing it to me. And that would kill me a little. I never want to do it again. People are too important. My friends are too important.

But I'm still sort of restless. And definitely worried.

Apparently there is an upside to being fired.

I'm drunk.

Quite drunk. Verging on spinny.

Once upon a time a couple of weeks ago this wouldn't have been a problem, as I gave up drinking for Lent (I'm not religious, no, and I discussed all of this in my former blog, now deleted, and am too drunk to re-discuss). However, thanks to getting fired, I canceled Lent and now find myself quite drunk.

My roommates (I have 4 - yes, 4. Also immortalized in my deleted blog.) are also quite drunk.

They must work in a few hours. Myself? Not so much.

Suckas.

Happy Wednesday!

Fun Facts about Summer! (the blogger, not the season)

I don't watch a lot of television, but when I do, oh man do I make it count.

(Gossip Girl spoilers to follow, in caps and with extraneous punctuation all over the place.)

Once upon a time I was an avid viewer of such socially acceptable programs as House, Entourage and the first season of Prison Break. Granted, I still watched Laguna Beach and subsequently The Hills, but, eh, no one really picked on me.

As my work (and play) schedules continued (and continue) to evolve drastically every couple of months, my tv-watching patterns sort of continually failed to develop. Due to a lengthy-ish illness and the wonder of TV-on-DVD, I had a passionate but brief love affair with Grey's Anatomy that ended when I just kept forgetting to watch during Season 3 and then woke up one day and realized I didn't care anyway. House and Entourage both fell off my radar after I missed enough episodes, and I hear the later seasons of Prison Break suck anyway. So, of late, I'd been pretty comfortable settled into a television routine that included only The Hills and Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (because really, nothing like starting the week off in tears) with occasional amazement at Meerkat Manor and a magnetic pull toward those stupid RW/RR Challenges because I'm sort of in love with Evan the Canadian giant.

But then the force of nature known as Gossip Girl ATE MY BRAIN. No, seriously. On the suggestion (read: shrieking insistence) of The BFF and my close college friend Kirsten, I tuned in for a few episodes and marveled at the pretty, pretty children in spectacular clothes running around my favorite city in the world, but it wasn't until Kirsten and I held a series of three Girl Dates dedicated solely to watching the final three episodes of the abridged first season of this masterpiece that I truly found myself addicted. Large portions of days at That Job Blogging Got Me Fired From were spent GChatting with The BFF about whether or not the dude who plays Nate is in our age group or if we're verging on cougar territory, how we'd really appreciate Blair Waldorf as a style consultant because her level of ridiculousness is incredible, and how we'd pretty much pay to be able to write for this show. And then I'd go to sleep at night wondering if Nate and Chuck are ever going to make up and how I can pull of those over-the-knee boots Serena was rocking that one time despite being a good 7 inches shorter than the actress playing her. Really, it was all sort of inconvenient.

And wonderful.

Thanks to the CW's brilliant decision to re-air all 13 episodes in order (before new ones in April OMG), I've been catching up weekly on all the episodes I've missed. I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally utter the absurd phrase "god, is it Monday yet?!" My love only grows. I don't think I've ever had a Girl Crush run as deep as the one I have on Blair, who makes me proud to have spent ridiculous amounts of credit on Wolford tights when I was 20 and running around London drinking my face off and making out with everyone I met under the guise of being a studious American college junior and eases any shame I may have had about never really wanting to grow out of dresses with bows or lots of pearl bracelets. As for Nate, I've actually stalked him all the way to imdb.com (and I promise I'm speaking honestly when I say this is out of character for me) just to confirm that he is indeed an appropriately few years younger than I am as opposed to, say, in high school or something. I send my friends (all also adults, as am I) text messages they probably could not care less to receive, gushing and speculating.

So, you see, I'm beginning to think I have a problem.

Last night did not help.

Last night's episode of Gossip Girl blew my mind. I mean, first Blair and That. Valentino. Headband! God, love. Love. Burlesque! Hilarious dream sequences in which Serena and Dan are finally not boring! Nate being more than just the hottest man-boy in my world these days and conveying an emotion! AND CHUCK! OMG! Since when is Chuck so hot? That suit?! The 'you sure?'!?!?!! CHUCK AND BLAIR!!! Am I acting sufficiently like a 16-year-old yet? I was squealing from my parents' couch. I mean, having seen the final three episodes, I knew this had occurred. I did not know in what capacity, however and I did not know that CHUCK WOULD BE SO HOT and that BLAIR AND CHUCK WOULD BE SO HOT and that CHEMISTRY WOULD OOZE OUT OF THE TELEVISION.

Whew. I have to go lie down.

And probably keep myself up all night in a panic over the fact that I now don't know who I want my TV Girlfriend to end up with because, I mean, it's a question of bringing the pretty v. bringing the HOT, and I'm actually torn.

This is what my life has become. I need a job. Stat.

iGeneration. ME ME ME!

Anyone read the Jinius? Was that a stupid question? Of course you do. And if you don't, of course you'll be starting.

The Jinius is pretty genius, and thanks to her (and the Washington Post) I'm now able to clinically define all that is wrong with me and why I will never be happy. Basically it boils down to this:

I, along with the rest of Generations X and Y, am a big, huge, entitled narcissist.

Well. Duh.

I will never be satisfied because I was born between 1981-1999!

The trouble with having rich (ish) parents. Or, 'oh, WAH, WAH.'

The trouble with having rich (ish) parents and a lot of friends who also came from rich (ish-to-OMG YOU ARE SO FREAKING LOADED) families is that when blogging gets you fired from your day job, it really elicits no sympathy. You encounter a lot of laughter, followed by the inevitable: "Oh well, that job was wayyyyyy too corporate and boring for you anyway. You should really focus on the PR gigs. Or writing. Or ... art. Something. Maybe you should go abroad?" Trying to explain your vehement refusal to seek monetary assistance from said rich (ish) parents (not to mention their aversion to 'giving' any) as well as the daunting student loan debt you incurred between 2000-2004 due to said mutual aversions generally proves pretty fruitless.

The trouble with having rich (ish) parents and a handful of post-collegiate friends who grew up under circumstances at the opposite end of the spectrum is that when blogging gets you fired from your day job, attempting to discuss the matter with certain individuals can result in something resembling hostility, as said post-collegiate friends begin screaming over your woes about their broken homes and the times they had to sell their bodies or at least their dvd collections after being fired from a job and OMG princess you have NO IDEA.

The trouble with having rich (ish) parents is that when blogging gets you fired from your day job, you realize everyone is right but you. As you struggle to maintain your pride in the face of your mounting debt and lacking food-of-the-non-carbohydrate-with-a-shelf-life variety, you slowly convince yourself that fleeing your adult life for the comfort of your childhood bedroom (its current state as an unrecognizable guest room notwithstanding) and accepting payment equal to the week's worth of work for which you obviously just did not receive pay to paint an addition to your rich (ish) parents house are suddenly actions you can justify and live with. Your friends with the trust funds nod approvingly and those with the self-described blue collars smirk knowingly.

You stop answering the phone as you struggle to get the paint out of your hair (have you ever painted a ceiling? OMG.) while trolling craiglist for gainful employment of any type. You can't meet the eyes of the girls in your favorite hometown coffee shop as they start to anticipate your daily trips (mom's 'treat' - god knows iced coffee is NOT a luxury you can afford on your own at the moment). You spend a questionable amount of time telling the cat how qualified you are to be ruling the world but DAMMIT THE MAN IS KEEPING YOU DOWN.

And worst of all, the trouble with having rich (ish) parents is that a week after blogging gets you fired from your day job and your shoulders are starting to ache from all the painting and you've convinced yourself that your sheer artistic brilliance is really being squandered by the menial task of broad brush strokes in yosemite sand, you find yourself turning to your rich (ish) dad and demanding: "Really, dad. WHY couldn't you have just set me up with a trust?"

"Well, honey, we did. But we spent it."

The trouble with having rich (ish) parents is that when blogging gets you fired from your day job, you not only have to deal with the fact that you're flat broke, but also that you're just like them.

Random fits of blog-deleting panic.

When blogging got me fired from my day job, one of those dutied with the task of blotting out the single spot of sunshine in a dreary office full of corporate drones (I'll just throw it out there now: I'm not necessarily humble all the time) smiled ruefully at me and said:

"You're actually a pretty good writer."

I started laughing. Okay, truth be told, I was already sort of laughing, because losing one's day job (read: soul-sucking but roughly 75% of one's living income for those of us 'creative' types - particularly those of us 'creative' types with a shopping problem and the travel bug) via HR shoving a fistful of what you thought was your anonymous blog (complete with an identifying photo - from the back - of a girl who is not you but sometimes looks like your younger self in certain angles and outfits) under your nose and telling you to pack your cube up and shove off warrants some type of reaction, and, for me, it was laughter.

I mean, I had literally finished The Washingtonienne two days before (completely unimpressed) and was all, 'damn, people really get fired for this crap? Good thing I'm not using my work computer to (poorly) write about my kinky DC sex or I just might have to jump out of cakes for money!'

Except, oops. Backing up, I was using my work computer to blog about other such fascinating subjects as my failure at adulthood and perfect ex-boyfriend and lifelong devotion to Coach. And, that fateful morning, to rant about my hatred of the man and the growing tendency of employers to post their current employees' positions on a Web site rather well-known to the twenty-something set and expect them (in all of their self-righteous narcissism - I know and accept my own kind) to just sit back and continue beating their brains out for some paltry pay, all the while knowing there is no such thing as job security. (What can I say? I have a temper and like to put a rather high value on my stock as an employee.)

Obviously, that didn't go over so well when IT security flagged it. Again, oops.

And there I was, with the hard copy of my blog sitting before me (pretty surreal, to be honest) and a couple of hens clucking their tongues at me and offering up as consolation to my own damn stupidity (I may not be humble all the time, but I will own up to my mistakes) the assessment that I'm "actually a pretty good writer."

Well, duh. Like you thought I was illiterate before? Yeah, how's that lack of a college degree treating you (yes I will hold my purchased education in as high a regard as necessary to help me sleep at night after I've put in my eight hours of pushing papers!)? Still bitter? I know I can write! Have we met? I only do things I do well. Some say that's a flaw. I say it's all part of my master plan to be perfect. Tomato, To-mah-toh.

Of course, then I proceeded to go home and freak the fuck out. Those judgy-faces read my blog! How long have they been reading it?! Who else has seen it? How much did they read?! It's supposed to be anonymous! PRETTY good writer?!!!?!! As in, they've fired previous bloggers with more talent? Why 'pretty good'? OMG I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY READ IT! WHO ELSE ARE THEY GOING TO SHOW IT TO?

So mid-freakout I did what any completely irrational, dramatic, under-employed young woman in the midst of an identity crisis she didn't know she was having coupled with a rare but intense moment of insecurity would do:

I deleted my blog.

As if they can't just pass around the hard copy for the reading entertainment of all should they feel the desire, confidentiality be damned. I mean, these are the people who posted my position on a public, non-firewalled Web site people like me are particularly prone to trolling. I'm assuming the rules don't apply to everyone.

And like I care anyway. It was GOOD. Let them read it.

Which then brought me to, 'SHIT. I just deleted my blog! My GOOD blog. SHIT SHIT SHIT. Give it back, Blogger!'

Blogger did not give it back. Blogger is so a Mac in the world of blog-hosting. A PC of a free blog-hosting site (er...livejournal, perhaps? I'm losing my analogy, but I liked where it was going, so, suffer) I'm confident would totally have asked me 39 times if I was sure I wanted to perform such an action, but a Mac like Blogger? Oh no. You said delete? BLOG DELETED.

And now I'm back to try again. I'm not sure why.

Because I'm a glutton for punishment? Eh, it's not like I have a day job to worry about now. And I don't make the same mistakes twice.

Because I'm an attention whore? Oh, that's definitely part of it.

Because in those moments where it seems like I've ruined it all for the millionth time in 26 short years, writing always seems to help? Yes. One hundred percent yes.

Because I'm a writer. A pretty good one.